Grigg's Tale
by FinnCullen
Summary: Grigg the mercenary never considered himself a natural storyteller, but in the company of two conversationalists less able than himself he found himself taking the lead.


**Grigg's Tale**

The three men sat round an oak table in the dark room.

"I always hated this time of day," said Grigg. Grigg was a wiry man in his thirties, with long thin face and dark hair cut short. He was unshaven and untidy, but his posture was one of alert relaxation. "Or night. Day, night, whatever it is. What is it, holy man?"

The oldest of the three looked up as if startled out of a doze. He was wearing robes of dark wool, and his grey hair was thinning. Pouchy blue eyes blinked as he considered. "It is after the middle-night watch," he said, considering, "so it is I suppose, day."

"Doesn't look like day," said the youngest, a plump cheeked fair haired youth with a sullen expression. "It's dark as night."

"Dark as the inside of a pig," said Grigg with a grin, "that's how dark it is. But it's the morning I suppose, even if dawn isn't up. So I say again, I always hated this time of day." He stretched his back a little and sighed. "Especially before a battle. Everyone pretending not to be worried about what would happen when the sun came up, nobody sleeping properly, not just the poor bastards on the shit-Watch guard duty. The only consolation was that the other side were probably feeling the same way."

"And you have seen many battles?" the Septon asked curiously.

"A fair few," said Grigg with a shrug. "Being a sell-sword tends to mean you spend your time in battles, you see. That's what you're paid for. Mostly. Sometimes you're paid to strut around and look dangerous for the benefit of whoever paid you."

"Some sell-swords is hired by rich women," said the youth with a wide grin. "Used to satisfy their needs when their husbands can't. Did you ever?"

Grigg laughed harshly. "Dream on, farmer's boy," he said, "I been a sell-sword all my man's life, and no woman's ever offered me so much as a penny for my meat sword. That's stories, not real life. Blood money for bloody work, that's the truth of it. A handful of silver up front to spend on good living, then roaring foul bloody horror and hacking apart men I've got no grudge against because otherwise they'd be doing the same to me, then another handful of silver after to spend on good living."

The blond boy screwed up his face. "So what battles have you been in?" Even the Septon looked curious at this. Grigg looked between them.

"Look at you two," he said with a mocking grin, "You want stories of heroism and glory? Well you won't get them, not from me. The only stories and songs of glorious honour and manly striving are written by bloody musicians who haven't been within ten leagues of a battlefield. It's butcher work, pure and simple. You stand, you run, you charge into shield walls, you hack and slash, and if you're standing by the end – usually up to your ankles in bloody mud and limbs and entrails – then count yourself lucky. You get your handful of silver. There's nothing to talk about there. And you, Holy Man, so eager for tales of warfare? Planning to cast off your robe and take up a sword are you? The gods smile on a warrior, don't they. Hellfire one of them IS a warrior. Life's better spent fucking than fighting."

The Septon tutted disapprovingly, though the fair boy smiled. Grigg pointed at the Septon.

"See… he'd rather hear tales of murder and killing that good honest fucking. Now there's the fault with this world. Which is worst, holy man, honestly?"

The Septon was uncomfortable. "Well within a lawful marriage, ordained by the gods and…"

"Piss and corruption," said Grigg, "The nearest I ever got to heaven was in the arms of a whore."

The Septon shook his head sadly. "Poor woman," he murmured.

"She was a beauty," said Grigg sitting back and looking up toward the ceiling, though the room was so dark he could barely see it. "Sally her name was, worked in a Wet Sept up in the north… oh? Pardon me, holy man for my common slang, a brothel then if you prefer." He grinned. "She was beautiful… I went to her every chance I could, not often enough though. I didn't spend much time there, most of the work I could get was in the south."

"Did she have big-"

Grigg cut off the youth's question with an angry look. "Don't be such a vulgar little fucker," he said, "It's nothing to do with that. She was just… I don't know. She had a way of making you relax with her, talk to her." He sighed, lost in his memories. "I told her things I liked, things I dreamed about that I'd never told anyone else. And she just.. she.. she made them come true."

"You mean she let you-"

"Interrupt me again you little shit and I'll break your jaw. It's not what we did, it's how she was. A sell-sword doesn't get much respect, and maybe that's as it should be. I ended up telling her that, and…" His voice trailed off. He remembered the last time he'd been with her, and it wasn't the fucking he remembered (though that had been wonderful and filthy and had left them both happy and exhausted) it was the way she'd looked at him. As though she adored him. As though she worshipped him. The game they were playing had cast her in the role of a royal lady with her new husband, and she had become that woman, and she had loved him all through that wonderful wedding night, from the first shy undressing and until he had left the brothel the next day and his handful of silver was handed over. He could see it in her eyes, the beautiful eyes of his new lady wife, that she adored him completely.

"Go on," said the Septon and Grigg glared at him.

"Fuck off," said Grigg, "make your own cock stiff, I'm not telling you filthy stories for the hell of it."

The Septon sniffed and looked away.

"I did a farmer's daughter once," said the young blond man with a nervous grin. "Bent over a wall."

"You should write your memoirs," said Grigg, "You have a gift for storytelling."

All three men looked up as the door opened. The man that stood there was tall and armoured, in ringmail over boiled leather, and wearing a ridged steel helmet. "Out you come," he growled and stood aside.

Grigg sighed and stood up. The young man followed him on unsteady legs as he walked to the door. The soldier walked behind the two men as they passed through the further open door into the courtyard beyond where the cold air bit their cheeks and the first rays of dawn showed over the dark stone walls surrounding them. The gallows was waiting for them, a simple affair with sturdy posts like tree-trunks, and between them a thick beam of oak. Two nooses were already fixed in place with ladders propped beneath.

"I don't want to," said the young man in a high voice, "I don't want to… I'm sorry."

One of the guards grabbed him by the shoulders and thrust him forward roughly. Another gave Grigg a push in the back.

"You too brigand," he snarled. Grigg turned to look at him, his face pale but calm, and he remembered a pair of beautiful eyes.

"You keep your hands to yourself," he said, "And show a bit of respect. I was a king, once.


End file.
